Misery
by SkyKissed
Summary: His friend, his general, is dead. His son a traitor. Taylor just needs a drink, some time with the ghosts haunting his past. Wash arrives, ready as always, to chase them away. Pre-Series Wash/Taylor


A/N: Wrote this because I'm crazy. Got another request to do, Ashes to update and I'm writing whatever this is. Oh well. Not really sure how to feel about this. It's Wash/Taylor but I'm not sure I'd call it overtly romantic or even slightly sweet. A little desperate and sad, maybe. Not sure if it's T or M so we're going with M for safety. xD

Gift for Inu. Sorry, darling, wasn't really as darkly sexy as I intended. But I fought it away from angst! Set preseries, right after Lucas betrayers Taylor in the jungle.

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><p><strong>Misery<strong>

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><p>When it rains it pours.<p>

It's a cliché, one of the most woefully overused, but she can't argue its validity as she jogs towards her Commanding Officers home in the dead of night. The summer air licks at her skin, almost uncomfortably humid, moisture beading across her flesh. It's too late for her to be overly concerned with appearance. She just needs to get there, needs to cover ground faster, needs her legs to move more quickly.

Taylor had hailed her not five minutes earlier, tone hazy, with liquor undoubtedly, and something else. A distinctive tone she's come to recognize as pain however desperately he attempts to subdue it. For him to call her….It has her kicking her job into a run. Relief comes to her only as his home comes into sight.

The codes are input and the door flung open so quickly that she barely breaks her run.

Wash isn't entirely certain what she expects but it certainly isn't this. A part of her expects him unconscious on the floor, clothes clinging to him, drenched in blood. A part of her expects her to find him pale, near death and struggling to breathe. Something, _anything_, chaotic. An enemy she can wrestle into submission, conqueror. But there's nothing of the sort.

Pauses a moment to get her breathing under control. Watches him carefully, the low orange glow of the chem. lights playing across his skin. Takes a cautious step forward, openly curious, "Sir?"

He stares at her, unseeing, his hands hanging limply over his knees. The fingers of his left hand, long and elegant, are folded around a glass, the amber liquid pooling around the sides. A twist of the wrist and it sways predominately to the left, lazy tides, forward and back, a pretty distraction. The right simply hangs, limp. Brow furrowed, she takes a step closer. Droplets of crimson leave streaks down the skin there, bead at the tips of his index finger before dripping. Something not so dissimilar to horror runs through her as she closes the distance between them. There's a small pool of blood near his feet, staining the leg of his fatigues, the bright color a striking contrast with the white of the tiles.

He doesn't resist as she takes his hand in her own, turns it over sharply. The Lieutenant winces, mouth thinning to a displeased line. Across the flesh of his palm runs a ragged tear, the skin torn. The edges are smooth, ripped by something sharp and performed quickly. As she inspects it for any stray material (ignores the sensation, the warmth, how sickeningly slick his skin is against hers), he finishes his drink. The med kit is beneath the kitchen and she fetches it quickly, is kneeling before him before he registers her absence.

She doesn't ask for an explanation but he offers one.

"Cut it on the glass," he mutters, inclines his head towards the small table not a foot behind her. The surface is sprinkled with shards of glass, bits of liquid still clinging to their surface, refracting the low light in broken patterns.

"And how'd the bottle get that way?"

He chuckles (and the sound almost breaks her heart, low and miserable), "May have broken it."

Wash nods, dabs a cloth with antiseptic and begins the arduous task of cleaning away the excess blood. The cut's deep, bleeds profusely. He watches, fascinated, as her fingers go about their task. As the skin once clean, once pure, is marred, till both their hands are tainted, bloodied. It's oddly fitting. That he should drag her down, stain her. But she moves through her task unknowing, pays no heed to the morbid direction of his thoughts. Traces the ridge of the laceration with a nail, smoothes her thumb over it. It hurts, sends a hot flash of pain through his palm, but he doesn't object.

She doesn't ask for an explanation and he has no desire to give one. But the alcohol has loosened his tongue and Wash is strength, Wash is comfort, Wash is rebirth, given human form. Not a light, not salvation, simply a salve, a soothing thing. She never questions this, simply accepts it as her place in his life. His glass is placed near his feet.

His right hand settles beneath her chin, gently tips her head up till amber eyes meet openly pained blue ones. The color is nearly absent, closer to a dead silvery white than she's comfortable with, demands she meet him, see him. It's enough to cause her breath catch in her chest, painfully constrictive.

Ayani's death had left him a hollow shell of a man, a corpse given life, moving through days in a blur, living but not alive. There was only routine, tasks preformed by rote. Nothing. It had taken years, more effort than she will ever openly admit to, to stitch him back together. And every time she treats him, she sees not only the physical scars she's had a hand in mending but the deeper, more macabre ones left stitched across his psyche. A latticework of hurts she's barely managed to stem with her friendship, her stalwart affection. A man, functioning and whole to any other, a messy patchwork, a Frankenstein monster, to her, barely held together by her clumsy efforts.

And now the stitches have come loose. She watches him bleed from those old cuts and ones still too new to catalogue, feels her heart break in her chest. Wants to look away, anywhere but at him and is ashamed of her own cowardice. Because looking at him is too similar to staring at death, something soulless and unnatural, an abomination she has had a hand in creating.

He'd tried to take his life after his wife's death. Wash had stopped him.

She isn't certain she has the strength to do it again. Not when it means seeing him like…this.

Smoothes his thumb gently over her jaw, stares at a memory rather than her, "He's gone, Wash. Lucas is gone." Tears in his eyes, unable to decide between grief and a betrayed expression.

She speaks before she can process the words, a desire to offer comfort, offer him something to hold onto, ruling her more than anything else, "Then we'll find him, Nathaniel."

"Not this time," that bitter laugh again. Her Commander glances about himself, likely in search of his drink. Finding it curiously absent, he scowls. "He's betrayed the colony." He's betrayed _me_.

Wash doesn't ask him to share and he has no desire to. But as she goes about her task, prepares to stitch his hand with a care that transcends simple camaraderie into something far more worrisome, he finds himself explaining, voice barely above a whisper. About the general, about his sons betrayal, about the loathing in the boy's eyes. How there had been nothing left of his child there. There's a finality to it, near surrender, something she'd never dream of associates with the strong man. But he's lost so much, more than anyone should ever have to bear and it's only just sinking in. Everything at once.

"They're both gone, Wash," he mutters, can't bring himself to look at her.

"I'm sorry, sir."

She doesn't mean for her voice to come out so soft, doesn't mean for her hand to find his arm. In all honestly, the motion is meant to offer little more than support. But they both find themselves staring, amber and blue focused solely on where their skin meets. She leans back immediately, aware of the invisible boundary she has overstepped.

To her surprise (shame) he stills her immediately; she makes no attempt to resist though she knows he would permit her.

His hand comes up to rest on her cheek, forgets the stinging laceration there. Momentarily, she allows herself to forget as well, forgets the sensation of liquid meeting her skin, sticky and unnatural, as it beads on her jaw to drip to her shoulders, leaves thin lines as it trickles down her chest. Forgets that this is very nearly, very truly, the sensation of him dying against her. An absent brush of his thumb over the rise of her cheek, doesn't blink as he meets her eyes, "What did we come here for, Wash?"

It's difficult to answer, and she isn't certain which truth he is seeking. There is the one she will reply with by instinct, the one he himself believes. That they'd come here for a second chance, a new life, some form of atonement. Or the truth; that her own reasons for following were less noble. That as desperately as she longs to see her species remade it's a thing she'd willingly forsake if it meant seeing _him_ whole again. It had been the prospect of a new dawn, a life for _them,_ that had her throwing herself through time to stand at his side; _his _ideals, _his _words, and not some higher over idealized prospect for the future that motivated her.

Those are thoughts she will never vocalize, too personal to share even with him, and the cliché answer will not lend him comfort. Instead, the Lieutenant creates a middle ground on which they may take shelter, straddles that line between solder and companion as she's done so many times before and finds only one word willing to come to her lips. Her hand comes up to clasp around his wrist, feels the blood stain the skin there as well. Another brush of his thumb, fascinated and across her lips, her voice soft, "Hope."

"Hope," the word seems to puzzle him as he rolls it over in his head, over his tongue. A foreign sensation he's played at since they arrived but never trusts himself to feel. He'd hoped to save his wife, hoped to salvage his relationship with Lucas, hoped to avoid bloodshed, hoped for a second start. Has hoped and had the illusion crushed too many times. She sees this and gives his wrist a squeeze, draws him from his thoughts to remain with her. It earns her a hint of a smile, sad though it is. "I think I'm about tapped out on hoping, Lieutenant."

"It's alright," soothing, attempting to brush through the walls he's erected about himself, eases the hurts he's allowed to fester within himself, "I've got enough for the both of us."

"You've said that before, Wash," after Ayani.

"And I still mean it."

Something flashes in his eyes, a memory that recalls him to his senses. He nods, makes no move to remove his hand. Thumb over her lips. Bends slightly before leaning towards her, pauses, so close. Near enough that she feels the warmth from his skin tickling and burning her own, smells the alcohol still playing in their mingling breath. Waits for her to offer an objection that will never come.

Taylor guides her to him, lips moving gently across hers at first, still searching for some sign of hesitation. Chivalry at its best, regardless of how misguided. Slides her hand down his forearm, gently edges him closer to her, deepens the kiss as best she's able from her awkward position. His tongue brushes her lips, is immediately granted entrance. Hand moves from her jaw to her neck, pulls her closer. Another crimson handprint left across her skin.

She tastes something almost like surrender, like hopelessness on his tongue, their kisses languid and slow as he conveys the hurt he will never put to words. His Lieutenant rallies the inner fire she's known for, moves upwards till she's half way to her feet, closer to eye level, meets the grief with strokes of her own, warm, comforting, understanding, tries to convey that this is a hurt he's chosen to meet alone. One he's chosen, not one he must endure. She's here, as she's always been here, as she'll always be here.

When they separate for air he smiles, brushes his nose across her cheek. As near to thanking her as he will come in such a moment. Words, they both understand, are a lesser venue of communication and will only sully this moment. Break whatever truce allows them to tread on such unsteady ground.

Wash moves his hand from her neck, plucks the needle from the medkit. He remains placid until she attempts to treat him. Then he gently attempts to extricate himself from her grasp.

"Don't, Wash."

"Don't _what_, sir?

"I did this to myself; I'll deal with it myself."

The idiocy of the statement has her nearly growling at him, "With all due respect, sir…"

"Wash," he holds up his good hand, silences her, looks so much older somehow, "I'm too tired to fight you, Lieutenant."

It's a surprisingly open expression and she's sees in his eyes that it's true. Hands him the needle, leans back on her heels to watch him attempt the task; arches a brow when he hesitates. He expects her to leave. He should know her better. If she leaves he'll simply let the wound be. Let the damn thing scar, leave it as a visible reminder of his most recent (supposed) failure, something to look at when he's feeling introspective. She remains precisely where she is, waits patiently for him to continue.

He's not suited for such delicate tasks. Never has been. The needle breaks skin, threads back through at the base of the wound, begins the task of bringing the flesh together anew. His breath leaves him in a hiss, the pain greater than it should be as he punctures too deeply. Somehow that only serves to more greatly frustrate her; it's a pain he could avoid but one he willingly submits to, believes he must endure. Nearly reaches for his hand and still herself at the last moment.

The stitches are too loose, too widely spaced. They may hold but when he reaches the halfway point it's obvious they will do their job poorly. The thing will scar, will pain him longer than it ever aught. Regardless of his protests she catches his hand on its most recent pass.

"Nathaniel…"

Hearing his name, hearing _her_ use his name, calls him to back to her. The brief moment of hesitation is used to claim his hand. He doesn't fight her this time, notes the determination playing in her amber eyes. Submits, just this once, to her. Watches, fascinated, as she dips her head. The thread is loose in the wound, has slipped from the needle. Catches the end of it between her teeth. The proximity of her lips, her breath, to the cut causes him tense beneath him. Finger curls back to stroke her skin despite the awkward angle. It has her pause.

Curiosity overcomes rationality, a strange sentiment overcoming her. This cut will come to represent his perceived failure, something ugly, something that haunts him. She brushes her lips across it, places an open mouthed kiss across his palm. When he tries to move she tightens her grasp, presses another kiss along the rise of the laceration. Her breathe warm, soothing against stinging pain. Sucks gently against the shoddy stitches to loosen the thread. A final pass of her lips, more openly affectionate then she's comfortable expressing, nuzzles her nose against his curled fingers.

He doesn't say anything immediately, allows her to finish treating his hand. In short order, the gash is expertly, almost painlessly, stitched closed. The excess blood toweled up. But he simply stares at her, the crimson on her lips standing out starkly against the rest of her skin. Reaches out, another brush of his thumb to wipe it away.

"Kind of ghoulish, Wash," but he sounds far from disgusted. Intrigued, perhaps, grateful, maybe, but hardly repulsed.

She doesn't make a move to wipe her face, permits him to take the towel from her and dab at the remainder of the liquid. Over her cheek, her chin. Towards the handprint on her neck. He deliberately slows, smiles a little in self deprecation, as he trails the fabric down over her clavicle. It's stained the white of her top but it doesn't dissuade him. Ghosts fingers over the rise of a breast; her breath catches.

It's a mutual movement, both coming together eagerly.

Her lips are flavored with his blood and that the taste repels neither is rather telling. He pulls her with him as he stands, hands sliding up and over her ribs, over shoulders, tracing the musculature beneath. Slender and elegant beneath her fatigues, a striking disparity to himself and an intriguing counterpoint when placed next to her impossible strength. She doesn't flinch when he clutches her too him, fingers digging hard enough to bruise. Feels her returning the gesture, nails biting as she digs them into the dip between his hip and abdomen.

He cannot bear the thought of losing her warmth in this moment and so does not move away when they need to breathe. Takes in shared, heated oxygen, the material burning in his lungs as she punctuates the intermission with feather light brushes against his mouth. Leans away only to inevitably return. She lets out an airy half moan as he drags lips down her chin, over the delicate skin of her neck. Allows herself, for once, and only this once, to lose herself to this sensation, desperate and half mad as it is.

"I'm not going to ask you to leave," it's mouthed against her neck as he finds her pulse there, sucks lightly over the spot he'd left his mark on not moments earlier. Against her better judgment, she inclines her head to the side to grant him better access. Teeth nipping at her, less gentle than she might have imagined him being. She permits it, understands he needs this validation.

That chivalry again, awaiting a protest that will never come. Clutches fistfuls of his shirt, nails grazing through the fabric, "I'm not going to."

If he says anything else it's lost, her mind unable to process the words as he crashes back into her, hands tangling in her hair, thumbs over her cheeks, pressing hard as his lips move against hers. He needs to fight, needs to conquer whatever ghosts plague him. She rises to the challenge admirably, returns the bruising assault, catches his lower lip between her teeth.

Fights him when he pulls her shirt over her head, fights him when he attempts to lead her back towards the bedroom. He scowls when she attempts to pull him over her on the sofa, and it brings with it more warmth then it likely should. He wants her in his bed. An oddly charming notion.

Fights him when he finally manages to get her there, though it's barely a fight anymore. She welcomes his caresses, welcomes his kisses when he trails them down the column of her neck, between her breasts. And if he bites more than nips, she revels in the contact. Something more physical for her to cling to. Her nails leave crescents across his biceps as she draws him almost stiflingly close to her. Leave angry crimson lines down his back when he finally enters her.

She doesn't close her eyes through the whole of it, though he does. There's something oddly intimate about watching the emotions play so nakedly across his features. Regret, anger, ghosts of the past suddenly haunting him as he moves. She draws him to her each time, kisses too delicate for either of them on his forehead, his cheeks, his eyes. Does as she always has. Stands stalwart against his past, fights the battles he refuses to, takes the guilt he is so eager to lay claim to.

It's quick, hardly gentle (and she never would have expected it to be so, would never have welcomed it). He comes, she does not. It bothers him, she knows. But she kisses him then too, soothing and understanding, still chasing away ghosts, stitching him back together as best she's able. He looks infinitely older then, every one of his years, as he silently promises to make amends. A warm smile in response as she leads him to rest against her chest, holds him.

Taylor is not a man to accept comfort and she is not a woman to offer it so freely. But he doesn't move away from her and she does not consider pushing him away. Feels him press a comforting kiss to the skin beneath his lips; breath tickling over her flesh. Feels his breathing even out as he slips into an uneasy sleep.

When he inevitably awakens, nightmares stealing him from his much needed rest, images of the man, the friend he's killed, the son he's lost, the wife he failed, rending any hope for a peaceful slumber, it's to finger stroking through his hair. Whispered comforts, half slurred by sleep, occasionally wordless, spoken until he slides back under.

When morning comes, he awakens to Wash, her dark hair splayed attractively across his pillows, one hand still in his hair, the other moved obligingly nearer to him, its fingers twined delicately with his own. A smile manages to tug at his lips as he takes note of her choice. Gently pries their hands apart to take note of the stitches. Smiles at her perfect treatment.

The red around the wound has died down. The swelling reduced. It all honestly, he'll be surprised if he even walks away from the encounter with a scar.

He looks up to find Wash smiling down at him, altogether too amused by his fascination with her work.

He doesn't wish her good morning, doesn't thank her.

Simply kisses her.


End file.
